But You're Still Here
by jovaine
Summary: Team. Building. Exercise. Napoleon was fairly sure that Waverly had orchestrated this whole thing for a laugh.


**Notes:** I watched the movie without knowing anything about the previous TV series and basically just fell for the very spectacular spectacle that is The Man From U.N.C.L.E. I am officially a fan.

I was also going to write a roommate AU featuring Napolean as the suave university student trying to find a place that would suit his fussy and impeccable tastes before it hit me that the roommate trope could work just as well canonically. Ah well...

* * *

 _Perhaps the most delightful friendships are those in which there is much agreement, much disputation, and yet more personal liking._

* * *

Nothing started a day better than a little breaking and entering.

 _Creative procurement_ , thought Napoleon indulgently as he adjusted his backpack, looking forward to a day of lazing around the house on one of his rare days off from work before catching up with some of his contacts.

Among all his (safe) houses, Napoleon actually liked his New York one best, not just because he had managed to make it as homey as possible (It has carpets. And proper furniture. And a nice little collection of canned food. Don't judge. He wasn't home very often, after all, and a grocery run does not actually take much time). Therefore, he was less than amused when he came face to face with Ms Gabrielle Teller herself the moment he pushed the door open.

From the looks of things, she had pushed his one seater sofa to a position about five feet away from his front door, and had decided to give herself a manicure while waiting for him to return. A quick glance at the space behind her assured him that he was not in danger of being attacked by an extremely proficient if easily enraged Russian agent, and that his belongings have remained (hopefully) untouched.

He smiled at her as amiably as one could at six in the morning when one comes home to find an unexpected guest already in said home.

"Gaby," he said. "How lovely to see you".

She gave him a critical glance before continuing to add little white polka dots to her mint green nails. "Did you have a productive night?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Napoleon smiled.

"Lovely. Well, Waverly sent me," she said reluctantly.

Napoleon's smile grew even more stilted. She inclined her head towards his living room, where upon closer examination, he noticed a thin yellow colored file sitting on his television.

"Team. Building. Exercise," Napoleon announced dryly, rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn't imagining things as he stared down at the file, feeling somewhat unwilling to touch it.

Gaby had finally stood up and was now standing next to him. Napoleon resisted the urge to step a little further away from her.

"Apparently, we are just going to be staying together for the time being," Gaby said, a thread of doubt in her voice. "For bonding purposes".

Napoleon was fairly sure that Waverly had orchestrated this whole thing for a laugh.

* * *

The thing is, Napoleon likes his personal space. Living practically on top of thousands of men during his time in the US Army had proven that a great many times over, which was why it was usually _your place, not mine_ (insert charming smile here).

Therefore, he was not very appreciative to be woken up by what sounded like muffled shouts and loud thumps from the room next door. He really did not mind if Gaby and Illya, his esteemed housemates for the foreseeable future, got over their inhibitions and gave whatever spark it was they had a go, but could they not start with rambunctious sex at ungodly hours in the morning?

He pulled a pillow over his head.

Unfortunately, it did not manage to suppress the sound of a door opening and more inarticulate mumbling.

Giving up, he opened his own bedroom door and poked his head out into the hallway.

Illya was leaning against the wall in front of his room, dabbing at a liberal amount of blood on his forehead. Gaby, meanwhile, looked highly mortified as she thrust a handful of tissues at Illya, nearly hitting his nose in the process.

"Do I even want to know?" Napoleon asked, his voice hoarse.

"It's nothing," Illya said shortly.

Napoleon turned to Gaby instead, who seemed to be steadily turning bright red with what he assumed was an admirable combination of embarrassment, indignation and guilt. It did not however, he noticed, prevent her from giving _his_ bare chest an appreciative glance.

"I may or may not have hit Illya. With a tessen," she said finally.

A _tessen_ , if Napoleon remembered correctly, was a Japanese folding fan made of metal which, apart from looking very nice in a lady's hands, could also be used as a fairly lethal weapon when necessary.

He stared.

"I was tired," Illya said, obviously annoyed by the topic of the conversation. "Walked into wrong room. Got attacked".

"I was changing," defended Gaby, though she continued giving Illya mildly remorseful looks. The blood had stained his jacket and turtleneck.

"I'll get the first aid kit," Napoleon sighed.

* * *

Even though Waverly had called it a team building exercise, the three of them were rarely at home at the same time. They weren't even assigned the same missions. Napoleon and Illya usually got solo missions or missions with other U.N.C.L.E. agents, at least half of them milk runs, and Gaby spent most of her time at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, training with various instructors.

On this particular day, Illya was on yet another mission in Cairo, Napoleon had nothing urgent planned, and Gaby had strained a ligament in her foot during an over enthusiastic combat training session and was under strict orders to stay at home, which was why the two of them were in the kitchen, arguing over breakfast.

"I may never dance again," Gaby pouted as she earnestly sliced mushrooms at the dining table. She had earlier declared that she could cook and plate an English Breakfast and serve it with every item still hot and Napoleon had gladly agreed to not having to make his own breakfast and to watching the drama unfold.

He looked up from where he had been carefully pouring just the right amount of sugar into his coffee. "Surely you exaggerate, Ms Teller".

She glared at him from across the table before her expression contorted into a grimace.

"Napoleon, I'm sorry," she said unexpectedly, eyes on the mushrooms.

He must have looked confused as she continued, still not looking at him.

"Technically, I knew what I was doing at the Vinciguerra estate. I wanted them to let me into the fold, and I had utter faith in your abilities," she smiled slightly. "You were the one who got me out from behind the wall, after all. But I didn't know that Uncle Rudi would… I'm not sorry for doing my job, but I'm sorry you got hurt in the process. And I know that you're uncomfortable whenever you're near me. For example, you've taken the seat furthest away from me at the moment".

"… Who told you?" Napoleon asked curiously after a somewhat lengthy silence.

"Illya".

"Huh".

It was true that he had unconsciously preferred to keep his distance from her after that particular mission. He was, however, surprised that Illya had told her about it. He remembered how he had practically collapsed against the wall not ten paces away from Rudi's torture chamber, struggling to breathe while his heart raced a mile a minute, his body literally reacting to the shock it had been put through. He remembered the genuine concern on Illya's face when he crouched in front him. "How bad?" he had asked, ready to leave Napoleon at a secluded corner and completing the mission by himself.

"I asked him," she explained, finally looking up at him. "I noticed your behavior. He didn't. Woman's intuition, I guess. It took a while for him to think about it. He suggested this as the reason. Couldn't think of any other possibilities".

"I get heart palpitations. Nightmares. Sometimes," he added, when she looked dismayed. "A human body has its limits, after all. It's not your fault, but occasionally, my subconscious just reacts to your presence. Negatively".

She had started hacking at the mushrooms and avoiding his eyes again. "I… I won't ask you to forget about it and put it behind us, but I… hope that we can go back to normal. Or as normal as we ever were. Start over. Something like that".

Napoleon understood. Really, he did. He did not know where Gaby or Illya's true loyalties lied. Hell, he did not know where his own loyalty lied. And most of the female agents he knew had always had a sort of mean pragmatism that could not exactly be found in the male ones.

"Yes, Gaby. Let's try that".

They shook hands solemnly.

* * *

Napoleon woke up.

It wasn't of his own accord, _oh no_ , he had been in a middle of a very nice dream which he couldn't for the life of him recall right now, but it had left him with a sense of satisfaction and bliss. Perhaps he had gotten his peaceful retirement on an idyllic island. Perhaps beautiful women had been hovering around him feeding him grapes. Perhaps…

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

"Peril".

No response.

"Peril. Peril. Kuryakin. Illya".

Illya groaned and lifted his face exactly one centimeter off the pillow where he had been lying facedown and unresponsive.

"Let me guess," Illya said. "I'm in the wrong room".

"Actually, I was going to tell you that you're in the wrong bed, but I guess that works too," Napolean replied with a decidedly beatific smile on his face which was completely ignored by his erstwhile partner. "Don't you need to, I don't know, take a bath, brush your teeth and change into something that smells less offensive, especially when you're sharing someone else's bed?"

"I'm not moving," Illya said after a slight pause, before dropping facedown on the pillow again and apparently going back to sleep.

"I should file a complaint," Napoleon said belatedly, pulling at his blanket and hoping that Illya was not a bed hog, or worse, a blanket hog.

* * *

He was wondering whether they had anything that remotely resembled a proper midnight snack in their cupboard or fridge as he loosened his tie when he noticed Illya coming out of Gaby's room, his hands full with a blanket and pillows.

Illya, noticing the direction of his gaze, shrugged. "She's sleeping on your floor".

Napoleon followed Illya into _his_ room, realizing that yes, Gaby was sprawled on _his_ floor, fast asleep while still dressed in a Rabanne dress and apparently had not bothered to remove her makeup and/or jewellery.

"Sabotage mission," Illya said. "With some agents in Section Four".

"All right," Napoleon replied, baffled. "But is there any particular reason why she's sleeping on my floor?"

"Maybe she is too tired to care," Illya said, covering her with the blanket he had taken from her room. "And sometimes mattresses can seem too soft".

Napoleon tried to ignore the fact that Illya may have accidentally revealed something a little too personal and raised a brow instead. "Her room is next door. I am also fairly sure that you can take her back to her room without her realizing it".

"Normal mistake," Illya smirked, as if daring Napoleon to contradict him. "If you are uncomfortable, you can sleep in her room. Or on the sofa. Not in my room though. And don't do anything stupid, Cowboy".

He went back to his room after that, satisfied at getting the last word and sure that Gaby was as comfortable as she possibly could get while sleeping on the hardwood floor.

Napoleon returned to the kitchen and ate an apple, a banana, a handful of cherries and handful of cornflakes. In that order.

Personal space was apparently going to be in short supply while he was living with those two. Two extremely attractive people, but still. He gazed mournfully at the lone bottle of beer in the fridge.

He went to sleep. In his room. On his bed. With Gaby sleeping contentedly on the floor next to him.

* * *

Admittedly, the mission had not gone as smoothly as he had expected even though it had seemed ridiculously easy on paper.

 _Murphy's Law_ , Gaby had snorted when she pulled him out of a delightfully raging river.

So here they were, trudging back to their shared apartment, him in waterlogged clothes with a side of bruised ribs, Illya with scratches and bruises everywhere, and Gaby nursing a migraine and a shallow cut across her forehead, a mirror to the injury she had given Illya early in their days of staying together.

"Painkillers," Gaby had muttered, the minute she set eyes on the first aid kit in their kitchen. Napoleon was not very sure how many she swallowed but it may have been above the recommended dosage. He waved off her offer when she pushed the bottle in his direction, as did Illya.

Illya sighed, lied down on the fluffy pink carpet which decorated their living room floor, and for all intents and purposes, fell asleep.

Gaby looked thoughtful, grabbing a large cushion for herself and throwing one at Napoleon (he caught it millimeters before it hit his face, thank you very much) before crawling over and lying down next to Illya.

"Bed," Napoleon lamented, as he took off his clothes and put on the first item of clothing he had found in his room, which was actually his bathrobe.

Gaby merely closed her eyes and gestured vaguely at Illya's other side. Napoleon went over obediently and hey, it was fairly comfortable here on the carpet, who knew?

"What are you doing?" Illya said sleepily, his guard obviously down.

"Sleep, Peril," Napoleon replied.

Everything else could wait.


End file.
